


hard at the end of the day

by TeaCub90



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Distress, Forehead Kisses, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Are you alright?’ he asks again; Crowley shrugs, something in his face twisted, unhappy.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	hard at the end of the day

**Author's Note:**

> Barely a few days into lockdown, my OCD (which conversationally is of the religious flag, hooray) was triggered and my mental health completely deteriorated. This is the result.
> 
> Featuring distressed!Crowley and worried!competent!Aziraphale. Written about a week and a half ago; since then, I've moved back home to live with my family and am slowly (hopefully?) recovering. Stay safe, friends; title comes from Sarah McLachlan's Angels.

* * *

He finds Crowley up on the roof, which is surprising in itself; not until now has the bookshop even had any kind of access up here but unexpectedly, Aziraphale finds a brand new staircase leading upwards and he follows it duly, the proverbial seeker of the gold at the end of the rainbow, all the way up, and up, and up. It’s rather fun when you think about it.

He finds Crowley standing – of all things! – barefoot, bare-skinned, only wearing trousers, a bottle of wine in one hand. It’s quiet tonight; no planes in the air, a lack of motors, or music from any concert stadium or neighbouring parties and Crowley is staring out at it all: a silent London.

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale scolds, whipping his cardigan off and hurrying across; lays it carefully over Crowley’s shoulders without any kind of protest or indeed, any sound at all. Crowley seems passive, his red hair a beacon, his glasses tucked into his pocket.

‘What are you doing?’ Aziraphale scolds gently, putting an arm around him, staying close as he tucks his cardigan in. ‘Are you alright, darling?’

‘Mm.’ Crowley gives a shrug, takes a massive sip of wine, passes it over to Aziraphale. He’s not sure what to do, so takes the bottle and a sip himself; their own quiet, private Communion. He’s aware of Crowley tucking himself up next to him, the proverbial hedgehog, a little stubborn and sulky and he reaches down with his free hand, grasps his friend’s own, loosely.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks again; Crowley shrugs, something in his face twisted, unhappy. Aziraphale glances sideways; clear his throat. Watches Crowley shiver in the spring air.

Well. Aziraphale can take a hint. Putting the wine down by their feet, he rubs his hands to ensure they’re warm enough. ‘Crowley,’ he says the demon’s name in a quiet voice and as Crowley turns, carefully wraps him up in an embrace.

Crowley sinks into him immediately, straight into his arms, the cardigan threatening to fall off and Aziraphale catches it, re-secures it around his shoulders, shushing him gently, cradling his hair, carding his hands through it. Crowley whimpers and if possible, buries his face into his shoulder even further.

He's trembling, _hard,_ and not from the cold.

‘It’s alright,’ Aziraphale whispers; senses his friend’s distress, how utterly touch-starved he is; how much he hurts. How he’d neglected to look; how closely he failed to see his friend’s need to simply be held. So busy has he been with his books, his studies, thinking his company was enough, that he failed to realise the obvious. ‘You’re alright, Crowley. You’re alright.’ He holds him close atop the roof, overseeing all of London; how clever his demon friend is, he thinks, even within the confines of his distress, to create, just for them, this wonderful new space.

‘You’re alright,’ he repeats, pulls back a little to cup Crowley’s face between his hands; tilts himself up on tiptoes to kiss his forehead, reverently; feels him sigh a little, a rattling shake of breath. ‘Everything’s alright. What happened?’

Crowley shakes his head, pain and anguish twisting his face, making him look so incredibly human, turning his fascinating, beautiful eyes to slits. ‘I dunno, I – I started…’ He raises a hand to his head, waves it around. ‘I started thinking and it wouldn’t – it wouldn’t _leave,_ and I couldn’t – I couldn’t run from it.’

‘Alright,’ Aziraphale is using that word a lot tonight, isn’t he? For all the good it’s doing, too and he pulls Crowley back in. He doesn’t ask; won’t push, unless Crowley wants him to. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’

Crowley shakes his head into his shoulder; that’s a no, then. Aziraphale sighs and rests his cheek against his hair, holds him warm and close and safe, as the stars twinkle down; Venus especially bright, the moon a slitting crescent, yet somehow gentle.

‘You just hold onto me,’ he assures softly, cradling Crowley and aware it could be any number of things that did this to him: memories of his Fall; of the fire; stress leftover from all they’ve done; of the way of the world in the here and now. Who knows? He’s got time to find out. ‘I’ll be right here, as and when you’re ready. Alright?’ he pulls back, looks Crowley in the eye. ‘I’m _right_ here. And I think you’re splendid.’

Crowley’s face, blurred by tears, blotchy but no less lovely, breaks out into the faintest smile, a crescent slit just like the moon itself and Aziraphale smiles back, relieved at the look, however faint; pushes some of that red hair back from Crowley’s forehead, cups his cheek.

‘My emotional support angel,’ Crowley murmurs through the tear-tracks on his cheeks and Aziraphale wipes them away with his thumb; then thinks that’s probably quite poor and miracles a handkerchief. A waste of yet another miracle, maybe, but anything for Crowley. He wipes away the tears carefully – Crowley lets him, giving himself over to the attention, letting himself be cared for, for once in his life – and then puts his arms back around him.

‘Come, my dear. Let’s go inside and I’ll make us some tea. Or would you prefer cocoa?’

‘Cocoa would be nice,’ Crowley mumbles it like an admission, something he’s sheepish to confess out loud and Aziraphale smiles and guides him back down the steps, back into the warmth. As a snake-like creature, Crowley has always struggled in the cold; to warm him up would the most logical and ingenious notion. ‘Got any – any shortbread, angel?’ Now he’s _definitely_ embarrassed – embarrassed _and_ hopeful. He’s always had a soft spot for shortbread and naturally, Aziraphale is delighted at the prospect of feeding him.

‘Of course, darling. Come this way.’

*

Later, Crowley dozes beneath a blanket on the sofa, propped up against Aziraphale’s lap, gently snoring, a cup with chocolate stains and a plateful of crumbs on the coffee-table beside them. Aziraphale reads quietly, one hand in those red locks; he’d put the record-player on earlier, has Queen’s Greatest Hits trilling through the bookshop. He’s always managed not to get noise-complaints from the neighbours, thankyou very much.

He’s singing along to Killer Queen in a low octave, tenderly stroking Crowley’s hair with his fingers; the demon is never elegant when he sleeps, but that’s fine. When he’s slumping like this, head at an angle, chin resting on his chest, that means he’s relaxing, and rested. Aziraphale keeps up the hopefully soothing murmurs; it’s worked for him in the past, curling up in the laps of such fine gentlemen as Robbie Ross and Stephen Fry when the anxiety of the world got far too much for him.

 _This too shall pass,_ he thinks and turns the page.

*


End file.
